Chanson de Représailles
by Daydreaming Heart
Summary: -ON HIATUS- In that bleak time, the people began to murmur...and as the time grew even more dismal, the murmurs grew into songs...songs of retribution...and somehow she had gotten the five foreigners to sing along. (French Revolution AU, hopefully having an unbiased view of the event; rated T for violence and blood. Everything else is clean, though)


**Somewhere in Hampshire, England, March of 1788**

"Unless you do not value your life, hand your money over!"

The brunette man scowled as a huge horse and it's rider, an abnormally tall blond haired man dressed almost completely in black, suddenly cut off his path, the thief atop the massive chestnut-pelted stallion smiling arrogantly.

 _A highwayman. Of course._ He thought, feeling like he could hit himself in the head. _What was I thinking? Drop the package off at Mr. Clorrin's for Senior….who so happens to be in another town….travel there by foot, refuse to stay at an inn, think you can make it back before dusk for whichever reason, and, not surprisingly, you don't. And because it's night, there are robbers everywhere. Oh, joy._

The rider now got off of his steed, unsheathing a rapier from his side and pointing it directly at the man's face, his smirk turning into an impatient frown.

"Are you deaf, fool?!" The crook snarled. "I said that, unless you don't value you life, hand your money over! _NOW!_ "

The civilian just stood there, unflinching, saying nothing.

At this, the bandit's temper boiled over. "If you really want to die so badly, then by all means!" he shouted, preparing to slash at the silent man in front of him, only for him to duck out of the way and, thinking fast, hit him square in the elbow, triggering a reflex that caused the assailant to drop his sword.

Without hesitation, the man snatched the rapier off of the dusty ground and now turned it against its previous wielder. "Now you listen," the brown-haired man said coldly. "I have had a very long, not very splendid day, and if you honestly think that you can just walk in and crown it off as the worst day I've had in my life by stealing my hard-earned money, then you, sir, are asking for me to slice you to ribbons!"

"Tch." The thief scoffed, unsheathing another rapier from his other side, a menacing and insulted expression crossing his face.

On the outside, the young man remained stoic and stone-faced, waiting for his attacker to make a move. On the inside, he was trying his hardest not to panic. He had never been in any sort of fight before, much less a _swordfight_ , for Senior, his legal guardian of sorts, had detested the thought of either of the two youths under his care taking up some sort of violent practice. Ever since his only son, whom the brown-haired man had never met, had decided to live the life of a criminal, he refused to condone such things as brawling or fencing. However, in this situation, the young man had to do whatever he could to prevent himself from getting murdered right here and now in spite of his lack of experience with swordplay.

The robber rushed forward again, and the young man parried the best he could, sidestepping to his right after deflecting the blade of his enemy. The entire duel itself seemed to consist of the civilian dodging and parrying any incoming blows from the thief, the sound of rapiers clashing only being heard by the lone owl that had perched on a completely leafless branch of a dead oak tree, it's back turned to the scrap as if it didn't even know that the two men were fighting.

However, the civilian had made a terrible error by sidestepping the wrong way as he dodged another strike from his foe, and before he could prepare to block, the thug had hit him on the head with the hilt of his sword, not with enough force to knock him out, but enough to send him plunging down to the dirt path, landing on his side and dropping his weapon.

"Wrong move, you nuisance!" the brigand spat, preparing to slash at the young man's throat. "Die, already!"

Just now realizing that, if he hesitated to move away, the youth would be slaughtered for sure, he tried to get up, and, knowing he could not possibly dodge in time, lowered his head to cover his throat and putting his arms over his chest to prevent the blade from striking his heart or lungs. He tried his hardest not to shriek in pain as the rapier was brought down and lacerated his face from bridge of his nose to the edge of his left cheek, just barely missing his right eye. Despite the sharp sting he felt on his face, the uncomfortable throbbing of the wound, the dizziness from the sudden drastic blood loss, and how he just wanted to stop and wait for it to stop hurting before fighting back again, he had to keep moving. This villain was out for his money or his head, whichever one he could claim with more ease. He swiftly picked up his dropped sword yet again and rolled out of the way of the enemy's blade, and, noticing the robber's hesitation, cut across the bridge of his nose in a similar fashion to the wound the youth had just received, except with no intention of killing. Unlike the young brown-haired man, the thief did not bite his lip and continue fighting, but bent down and covered his face, screaming in agony like the egotistical coward he was.

The young man pointed his rapier at the assailant, glaring at him with contempt. "Go away." He said coolly. "Leave me alone, lest I turn you in to the authorities."

And in those times, every criminal absolutely dreaded going to the authorities, for the punishment for their deeds would be _far worse_ than sitting in a cell for a prolonged period of time. The punishment for most crimes in those times was death, and not a pleasant one at that.

However, as the highwayman began to stand upright again, he now had a pistol in his hand, leering at the civilian with absolute hatred, ready to fire if the adolescent would dare strike again. _Ugh, like_ that's _just._ The boy thought, irritated and indignant. With no other choice other than being shot and killed, the young man dropped his rapier and, as reluctantly as possible, had to hand over all of the money he had on him….all of that money he worked so gruelingly for….as well as his pocket watch, the only other thing of any real value that he had with him at the moment, placing them into the loathsome thief's satchel.

The bandit sneered at him in the most pompous and mocking of ways, almost as if he felt like he should push his luck and gloat, but had to wait for another unfortunate soul to ambush and rob, and walked back to his horse, riding off into the shadows.

Disgruntled, bleeding, and irate, the wounded boy walked along the path back to town again, pressing his hand against the gash on his face to try to stop the blood loss as much as possible. He was not looking forward to telling Senior and his niece, the girl who acted as the adolescent's adoptive sister back at home, about the scuffle, and how he lost his payment for the month as well as the watch his foreign sister had got for him for Christmas. The money and watch part, he knew they wouldn't be _too_ concerned about, but it would still be unfortunate news to them. No, he knew that they would become hysterical once they saw his injuries. He appreciated that they cared, sure, but he did not like to be fussed over at all. He was practically a full grown man and could take care of himself, but even so, he was positive that they would probably fret over him until the wound on his face had completely mended….which, judging from how it felt, would probably take a lot of time.

When he made it to his home at long last, he knocked on the door, waiting a few seconds before a young woman's voice, thick with a Scottish accent, answered.

"Ay? Who's there?"

"….It's me." He replied. _She is not going to like this. Not at all._ He thought, wincing slightly and bracing himself for the uproar.

"Alright, I'll be right with you."

A girl with blonde hair in a rose dress, slightly older than the boy, had opened the door for him. Though placid as usual for a heartbeat, her blue eyes widened in horror at the state of her adoptive brother as she lifted her hand over her mouth in shock. She was quiet for a few moments, slightly hyperventilating, before the worried screams that the young man expected to hear rang through the air.

"Oh, my-! Uncle! _Uncle! COME QUICKLY!_ "

* * *

 **Northeastern France, the same week**

There was something in the air in that small French town that day.

Something…furious...drifting in the atmosphere, coming to life the instant they heard the rolling drums. The rolling drums that signified the arrival of Death, and how it would so soon and so suddenly take the poor man upon the wooden stage, standing upon a stool that few wished to stand upon, but many were forced to do so, anyway.

Even as the gathering was forcefully started, they had muttered to themselves and to others, a variety of negative emotions underlying their whispers. The emotions only grew when they saw _her,_ that dastard of a woman, that serpent in aristo's clothing, lightly smirking at just how much she knew this man had no reason to die, that, to her, he was no more than a dummy on which she would practice her authority over the commoners, that she was only killing him to get a stir out of the poverty-stricken souls who were coerced to just stand there and watch as the stool under the man's feet was kicked away by her soldiers, and he let out but one short yelp before the rope had silenced him.

She hated them for no real reason, and in turn, they completely despised her for every possible reason.

And even when the horror show was brought to a close, as the citizens dispersed and gathered in their homes or taverns or inns, the mumbles of rage, sorrow, and fear still lingered. They had always existed ever since the nobility had driven them into famine and destitution, but when that snake of a woman had become the duchess, when she began to abuse her status more so than even the king and queen were doing, then the lingering voices became stronger, angrier, and, to some extent, bolder.

"Blast that accursed Ma'amselle Artemisia!" growled a burly man with thick brown facial hair and a shiny head, wanting to slam his fist on the inn table but refusing to give in to such an urge as it would disturb the others.

Many had detested the heinous lady-aristocrat to such a point that they refused to call her by her title when her few supporters were not present.

"Aye, M'sieur," said a young woman with raven hair and a dirty blue dress sitting adjacent to him, her lips curling into a slight snarl. "That woman could not be loved even by the most affectionate of dogs. The thought of her very existence makes me ill."

The girl leaned back in her chair, sighing with exasperation as she looked at the ceiling. Many thoughts had been scrambling about in her mind as she tuned out the ornery chatter in the rest of the old inn, which had actually gone out of business a few years ago and now served as the meeting place for….for the people who dreamed to make a change. A change that was so desperately needed in that miserable time of history. A change that had to happen before the population of the country was wiped out by hunger and sickness, leaving only those piggish leeches that lived in the extravagant mansions and castles dotted here-and-there throughout France as the only survivors.

 _How long?_ She thought miserably. _How long before it all ends? Before we make our move or before we allow those selfish weasels drain us of all of our living conditions and sentence us all to starve to death?_ She crossed her arms and closed her eyes for a few seconds. _Enough is enough._

The bald, muscular man turned to her. "You feeling strange?"

The young lady broke out of her morose trance and looked back at him. "Oh? Oh, I-I am fine, M'sieur." She said with a mild stammer, leaning forward in her chair once again. "I guess I just got lost in thought for a moment."

"Lost in thought, are we, now?" The big man echoed. "Well, so long as none of those thoughts are dreams that you know must be pursued, but you don't try to fulfill them for whatever reason."

"Hah, you speak the truth, my friend." She replied, a small, bittersweet grin crossing her face.

After just a few seconds of thoughtful silence, a middle-aged man with ragged green clothing had weaved through the grumbling crowds, noticing the girl who had been his acquaintance, and making his way toward her table.

"Afternoon Ma'amselle, M'sieur." He said with a glum smile, at least trying to be warm with his companions despite how cold they all seemed to feel internally.

"M'sieur." Said the older man with a nod.

"M'sieur Watts." The girl greeted. "Please, take a seat. What's on your mind, good man?"

"Alas," said the man called Watts, sitting down by his fellow citizens. "Nothing aside than the dreadful event that occurred earlier today. I still feel a little sick to my stomach after being forced to watch that horrible hanging." He said with a grimace. "How about yourselves?"

"The same, the same." The black-haired lady replied.

Once she had finished talking, the threesome became silent, the only noises audible once again being the soft but angry murmurs of the other people within the building. Watts in particular had gone silent as a nervous deer, for he was searching his mind for what he was going to tell his friend, since that was the reason he decided to speak with her in the first place. He had forgotten for a moment, the morbid thoughts of the day occupying his mind and making him fail to remember what he wanted to say. Upon recalling it, he let out a short cry of exclamation and slapped the table very loudly, startling his comrades….and plenty of other people in the old inn….in the process.

"Stop that awful din, M'sieur!" One man cried out.

"Do you _want_ to make the aristos think that we're starting a riot!?" a middle-aged woman also shouted out at him.

"My word, Watts!" The sable-haired girl rebuked, putting her hand over her heart in a startled fashion as if she thought it would fly right out of her upon hearing the noise her friend had made. "What's the meaning of this sudden racket?"

"Indeed! That seemed quite unnecessary!" The muscular old man agreed.

"My sincerest apologies, but I beg your pardon, Ma'amselle," said Watts to the lady, folding his hands on the surface of the table. "….But didn't you say to us that you had to catch a ship to cross the canal?"

"Aye, M'sieur, but why-?" She was about to query her comrade's sudden comment, when suddenly she realized that she had completely forgotten about an important task of hers. Her eyes widened, and she immediately stood up, ready to sprint out the inn door.

" _Oh non. Non non non non non!_ I am going to be fortunate if they haven't already left without me!" She cried frantically, pushing in her chair and brushing her dress, picking her satchel off of the old wooden floor and putting it over her shoulder. "I must apologize, gentlemen," She uttered as fast as she could. "-But I must bid thee farewell!"

"Be careful they don't mistake you for a spy over in England!" Watts warned her.

"Yes, yes, I'll be sure to keep that in mind!" She hurriedly replied. And with that, she zipped out of the building, fast as lighting, unintentionally slamming the door with a loud thud as she left.

After the people had carried on with their chatter after that brief pause of simultaneous silence upon all the commotion the young lady caused, the two men left at the table, too, continued their conversation.

"That Ma'amselle Heartilly…." The old but brawny man said with a sigh as he shook his head. "So young and hasty, yet she decides to tread on thin ice with this whole visit to England just to seek the advice of a fugitive revolutionary leader of ours who managed to get smuggled over there one way or another. It's like walking right into a den housing a pack of wolves, waiting and craving to tear potential threats to a million pieces, with nothing but a mere stick to defend yourself with, only to retrieve some knick-knack you dropped."

"Nay, M'sieur," the other man responded in disagreement. "Juvenile and impetuous as she may be, I'm sure she knows what she's doing."

* * *

 _A/N: And so it begins! HOO BOY! This was fun, but a doozy, to complete. Hope you guys like it so far. Constructive criticism is much appreciated (and if any of you happen to be well-learned with the late 1700's time period, I would love to hear any tips you guys might have for me as I continue this story, as I'm really going to need it to make this fic more believable. I'm also aiming to have an unbiased look at the French Revolution, so any notes about that event, positive or negative, I would be grateful for)_

 _Also, yes, the highwayman at the start was Seifer. However, his first appearance in this fic is also going to be his last, as he really doesn't have any purpose in this story aside from showing up, giving Squall his scar, taking all of his money, and then leaving (and dishonoring his family name by robbing people). He will be sorta mentioned a few times by "Senior" for plot reasons that will be a little more clear in the next chapter. Sorry to disappoint any fans of his.  
Aaaand yeah, for some reason Quistis is Scottish and Squall's adoptive sister. I wanted to make the cast a bit multicultural so some other stuff would make more sense later on (even though I might be digging myself into a deeper hole by making most of the main characters not really from England in a time where foreigners and even neighbors were considered suspicious), and since they were decently tight to some extent in the game, I figured it'd make sense if they were family members despite not being blood-related, but we'll delve a little more into that in the next chapter._

 _As for Senior, he's kind of an OC? Sort of? He's actually not in the story all that much. He just acts as Squall's and Quistis' legal parental guardian in this story as well as the local nice guy. Aside from a few of the beginning chapters and being mentioned here and there, he won't make many appearances and will be a very minor character._

 _I also used Ultimecia's European/non-American name for her mentions and appearances in the story because, of the two names, Artemisia sounds like the more real name...even if it does mean that the villain of the story is named after an aromatic herbal shrubbery (I kid you not, that's what her name means). And she's a jerk aristocrat._

 _And it seems Rinoa's heading off to England. Something fairly minor I want to note is that she doesn't have any highlights in her hair in this (and, likewise, Zell doesn't have a tattoo on his face in this fic when he shows up, either) since they weren't really a thing back then. That's all I really wanted to say._

 _Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed! :D_


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